


how clear the air becomes (how sharp the colors)

by franticallywhisperedstories



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Crushes, F/M, Music, band au, girl power ayyyy, in which i attempt to write peraltiago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franticallywhisperedstories/pseuds/franticallywhisperedstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jake learns that his childhood best friend is the singer in an all-girl band that's kinda-sorta-maybe famous, he's ecstatic to hear them play- again and again and again.</p><p>If he becomes the Nine-Nine Girls' biggest fan along the way, it's because he's supporting his friend in her musical endeavors and also because they are very good. </p><p>It has nothing to do with the dorky way the lead guitarist smiles at the end of each song. Honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. extra extra read all about it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to smolperalta for the encouragement!
> 
> title from "loud music" a poem by stephen dobyns

**ALL-FEMALE ROCK BAND CLIMBING THE CHARTS**

Everyone’s heard of boy bands, but this triad of women is ready to show you what girls can do when you give them drums and a mic. Gina Linetti, Amy Santiago, and Rosa Diaz make up the band “99 Girls” which has been rapidly gaining popularity ever since the release of their latest album, “Got Your Back” which contains hit songs such as “Ballad of Emily Goldfinch,” “Mid-Morning Dance Party,” and the ever-popular “Double Tuck.”

Gina Linetti, lead singer/tambourinist/backup dancer/forefront dancer/wind chime shaker says that the three of them met at the New York Police Academy. “Rosa and Amy were going to be cops,” she said in an interview last Thursday. “I saved them from a life of boring paperwork and even more boring high-speed chases. They should thank me.”

Lead guitarist Amy Santiago, when asked about this, said, “I really did want to be a police officer. I only took up guitar because my mom said that I needed a hobby that didn’t involve organizing my closet. I don’t really know how Gina convinced me to be in a band with her. I suspect that drugs were involved. But I love 99 Girls. I do.”

Drummer Rosa Diaz said the same thing she always says when interviewed- “No comment.”

Many fans appreciate the girls’ dynamic- how wildly different they are, with quirks and habits that they don’t bother to hide. One fan mentioned that she, “likes seeing real women up on stage, women who are totally honest about who they are and don’t change themselves for anyone.” 

Other fans just appreciate the wild music, head-bopping beat, and relatable lyrics that can be found in any song.

One thing is for certain: the 99 Girls will leave a lasting impression on anyone who takes time out of their day to see them play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's Headline: Complete Idiot Spends Forty-Five Minutes Attempting to Complete a Newspaper Format on AO3 Only To Realize That It Looks Terrible When Posted and Just Gives Up Completely


	2. so it begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake has a lot of riveting conversations with several people, and Charles cries.

Jake tilts back in his chair, balancing against the wall. “Hey, Goose.”

“Jacob Peralta,” Gina says, and he decides that she’s happy to hear his voice. With Gina, it’s sometimes hard to tell. “Did you forget the day of the week again? It’s not Sunday, honey.”

They’ve been having Sunday phone conversations for as long as they’ve been living apart. It’s a nice thing to look forward to, even if she usually spends the time ranting about dumb people she encounters and he spends the time talking about the dogs he sees on the sidewalks.

“I know,” he says. “But hey, I remembered my Facebook password and logged in for the first time in like, three years, and apparently you’re a celebrity now?”

“Yes!” she shouts, so loud he almost topples backwards. “Yes, good, kiss the ground I walk on, peon!”

He continues. “A rock n’ roll band? Really? I didn’t know you were into music.”

“Sweetheart,” she says. “Sweet. Heart. Music is the lifeblood that flows through the veins of the universe or something. I didn’t know you were into your arteries, Jake.”

He blinks. “I don’t actually have strong feelings about my arteries.”

“You’re missing the point!” she says. “I rock harder than the Earth’s core. That’s the point.”

He laughs, twisting around so he can see her Facebook page again. There are a lot of photos in sort of creepy lighting, and he can kind of make her out near the front of each one, gripping a microphone and usually doing something weird with her limbs. 

“Looks like it,” he says. “Girl band, huh?”

“There are way too many boy bands,” Gina says. “I appreciate the eyecandy, but they all sound the same. Apparently, the world thinks so, too.”

“Okay,” he says. “One question, though. I only see three of you. Why are you called 99 Girls?”

“It’s pronounced Nine-Nine,” she says. “It’s an artistic vision. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asks. If Gina’s Facebook is correct and she’s not just making up wildly farfetched stories for likes again, 99 Girls has existed for the better part of two years. That’s like . . . at least twenty Sundays.

“Whatever,” she huffs. “Don’t get all offended on me.”

“I’m not-,” he starts to say, but then he’s struck by a Very Important Revelation. “Oh my god, Gina, did you not tell me because you like having normal conversations with me that aren’t about your super badass band?”

“You’re wrong,” she says, but he’s known her longer than that. 

“You did!” he says happily. “It’s okay. I won’t talk about- are you doing the worm?”

He clicks on the photo to enlarge it.

“Artistic. Vision,” she says, and he quietly saves the magnificent picture to his folder.

“So,” he says after a while. “You’re like, basically Beyoncé now, right?”

“Bitch, I was always basically Beyoncé. The only difference is that now I’m being paid for it.”

-

“Charles!” Jake plants his hands on his best friend’s desk, leaning in with a wide smile. “Have you heard of a band called 99 Girls?”

“Did you lose trivia night at Sal’s again?” Charles asks sympathetically. “I feel you, man. The pop culture category is horrendously outdated and favorable towards old people. Just the other day, I lost to Ethel Huberman. She doesn’t even remember her grandson’s name!”

“What? No! Sal’s trivia night is excellent, you just don’t know anything about pop culture and why are we having this conversation?” Jake straightens up. “Anyway, my old friend Gina is in a girl band and apparently they’re really good and even kinda famous.”

“You know a famous person?” Charles stands, accidentally knocking a coffee cup full of paperclips to the floor. The resulting mess is diligently ignored by all around it. “That’s very cool. Do you have her autograph?”

“Um, no? Charles, I’ve known she’s in a band for less than twenty-four hours. I’m going to go see her play next Friday. You want to come?”

“Jake,” Charles says seriously. “There is literally nothing I would enjoy more.”

Jake flashes him two thumbs-up. “Kewl. I borrowed their latest album from Hitchcock, which I’m choosing not to think about. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Stakeout tunes!” he sings at the same time Charles says, “Workout playlist?”

“No!” Jake says. “When have I ever been thinking about a workout playlist?”

“It might be good of you to start,” Terry calls from his desk. “Music is the number-four most important thing to have while working out.”

Jake spins around. “Terry! How cool that you were listening to our conversation! You wanna come see the acclaimed band that’s very existence makes me feel like a bad friend?”

“I’m already going,” Terry says. “Terry loves empowered women and music. It’s a combination of my favorite things! Sharon and I have had our tickets for over a month and our babysitter for two.”

“How did everyone know about my childhood best friend’s band before I did?” Jake asks the ceiling, which does not deign to respond.

“I didn’t!” Charles says. “We can discover their music together. It’ll be a great bonding moment.”

-

“Oh my god,” Jake says. He can’t stop tapping his foot. It’s like a disease. “This is so good. I want to listen to it over and over again.” The last few notes fade into the humid air, and a new chord strikes up, jaunty and memorable. “Wait, are you crying?”

Charles sniffles in the passenger seat. “I can’t help it! Perfect harmonies make me emotional.”

“I can’t blame you man,” Jake says. “I can’t believe Gina can sing. Like, really well.” That seems like something she would’ve mentioned at least once during their many years of trying to one-up each other. 

Charles breaks into a fresh bawl as all three women start singing at once, eventually fading to only Gina, with what sounds like drumsticks clicking in the background. “I have a new favorite band,” he chokes out.

Jake pulls out his phone and does a cursory Google of _the 99 girls._ There are about a hundred thousand results, and he starts to scan them.

Within six minutes, he learns about Gina’s bandmates, Rosa Diaz and Amy Santiago, and even discovers more about Gina than he ever really knew, which makes him kind of uncomfortable.

_Her fans don’t know that she practiced her makeup on me when we were eleven. They don’t know that she was obsessed with wolves for a solid ten years of her life and might still be. They don’t know that she makes most of her own jewelry or that she had a hoodie made that says, “Time for Gina’s Opinion” on the back,_ he reminds himself. _She didn’t tell you about this for a reason. You know more about her than all these people._

All doubts are banished as he discovers exactly how much fanfiction there is about them. Oh God, this’ll be terrific blackmail material. He clicks on the first one he sees, rated E which probably stands for Excellent. He’ll have to ask someone what “smut” is later.

The last song of the album draws to a crashing close. Almost absentmindedly, he reaches out and hits “replay.” 

He’s starting to really look forward to Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm corner-of-sky on tumblr if you want to check me out! (please)


	3. paint the streets with your voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 99 Girls act super cool, but they're all total dorks. Their fans know this, but the band doesn't know they know.

“Close your eyes,” Gina instructs, and Amy obeys, sitting very still. Her hands jitter slightly on her lap.

“This coffee is crap,” Rosa informs them. “This venue makes about seven million dollars a year. You’d think they could invest in some decent coffee.”

“Stop shaking,” Gina says, annoyed. She balances the eyebrow pencil in two fingers. “Jesus, Amy. You’d think this is your first time going onstage.”

Rosa drops her coffee cup into the garbage without looking. “She’s not anxious. Are you anxious?” This is directed to Amy, whose eyes flutter open for a moment before Gina hisses at her.

“Sorry!” she squeaks. “I’m not anxious. This is going to be fun.”

“’Atta girl.” Gina squints at Amy. “Your eyebrows are almost done, hon.”

“I hope that wasn’t an intentional rhyme.” Rosa slouches down into a chair, kicking her feet up onto the table. “If you go out on stage and start rhyming, I’m leaving the band.”

“I’ll leave the band first if you two don’t appreciate my artistic genius,” Gina mutters. They’re both empty threats, and everyone knows it. None of them would know how to live without the band, although they’re all willing to try once they’re contract’s up.

“Can we ask someone to get a bucket of ice water ready for after the performance?” Amy asks, eyes still shut as Gina gently brushes her face. “’Vampire Blood Drive’ is murder on my fingers.”

“That song is so fucked up.” Rosa laughs, leaning back in her chair. 

“You wrote it,” Amy reminds her. “Gina, I need to pee.”

“Don’t rush a masterpiece,” Gina says. 

“We needed a heavy metal song,” Rosa says. “We agreed that we had to show everyone we’re not fucking around. I can appreciate how weird it is, though.”

“You wrote, ‘kill your vocal cords,’ into the lyrics,” Amy says. “Gina Snapchatted it with the caption ‘slow down, sugar.’”

“And I killed my vocal cords. Again and again and again.” Gina cups Amy’s face in her hands and blows gently. Amy visibly shudders with the effort not to flinch. “The things I do for this band.”

“Gina,” Amy says, and there’s a note of desperation in her voice.

“Fine. Go.” Gina releases Amy, who takes off for the tiny bathroom at the back of the dressing room.

“’Vampire Blood Drive’ is a good song,” Rosa says. She tilts back in her chair, reaching for a pair of drumsticks thrown haphazardly behind her. “I like all the screaming.”

“We get it, my beautiful singing voice makes the song. You’re really beating a dead parakeet here, honey.”

Rosa snorts. She raps out a pattern on the plastic table. “And a-one, and a-two, and a one-two-three-four.”

Gina throws back her head and lets loose a manic screech of laughter that’s likely to keep her throat sore for days. Rosa reels back, dropping her sticks.

“Holy shit,” she says, awed.

“That? Right there? It was a one-time thing.” Gina examines her nails, painted bloodred for the occasion. “You won’t ever get me to do it again.”

“We should end the concert on that,” Rosa says. “Ten beats of maniacal laughter, lights fade, done. We’ll see all the terrified looks on our fans’ faces. Then you never do it again, and we all pretend you never did.”

It’s a promising concept, Gina has to admit. Most of Rosa’s ideas involve messing with their fans, which makes it sort of a surprise that they still have fans, but their music is ethereal and incomparable. It would be even funnier if Amy didn’t know it was happening. She has the dorkiest surprised face, and she might even drop her guitar, which would be hi-larious.

“What is going on out here?” Amy emerges from the bathroom looking highly concerned. “Gina, what the hell?”

Except that the walls in here are super thin. Of course. “Don’t worry about it, pup. Auntie Gina’s just fine.” She reaches out to pinch Amy’s cheek, but most people who spent months training to be cops have scary-good reflexes. She keeps forgetting about the scary-good reflexes. Amy bats her hand away, annoyed.

“I’m only like a year younger than you,” she mutters. Rosa once said that the joke about Amy being the baby of the band was very, very dead, which naturally meant that Gina has to keep it going as long as possible. Sometimes it’s difficult to read Rosa, but Gina considers herself excellent at it.

“Okay!” Gina calls, balancing precariously on the table. She has long maintained that chairs are for people with no charm. “Five minutes to showtime, ladies. Amy, take your hair down.”

“Ponytails are useful while playing guitar for a lot of reasons-,” Amy begins, which actually makes Rosa stand up and tug the band out of her hair with a little more force than necessary. She ruffles Amy’s hair, pats it down in a few spots, and yanks it back into a considerably messier ponytail.

“There,” she says. “Now you look at least a little like you’re in a rock band.”

Amy touches her hair and scrunches up her face in what’s probably supposed to be an annoyed expression, except it looks more constipated than anything, but she doesn’t argue.

“Great.” Gina claps her hands together. “All right, let’s go rock their gross, sweaty socks off.”

“Let’s not,” Rosa says, but she grabs her drumsticks and follows Gina anyway.

-

The lights flood Amy’s face the second she steps out onto the stage, and for a moment, only a moment, she is overwhelmed with noise. 

Her guitar strap feels heavier on her shoulder than usual. 

She always enjoys the rush of adrenaline that comes as she slides her aching fingers into place, again and again, across the neck of the guitar, but it only ever follows the anxiety that seems to tinge everything she does in the crowded, noisy room, looking out over three hundred forgettable faces pulsing violet.

Gina takes the mic, winding the thick cord around her arms. The people here don’t need to be introduced to the 99 Girls, but Gina does it anyway. Rosa slams a cymbal when she hears her name, so hard the sound reverberates across the auditorium, and Amy can feel herself unwinding, relaxing. She laughs. 

People cheer. People clap. People cannot get enough of them, and they haven’t even started playing yet. 

But then Gina calls, “All right, let’s give you your money’s worth!” and that’s their cue, has been for as long as Amy can remember.

Rosa taps out a countdown, and they’re swept along with the crowd.

There is anxiety in performing, but there is none in guitar. Amy loves guitar. It’s methodical and satisfying and filled with numbers and patterns. Guitar makes sense in a way that so few things do. 

Still, it never feels like going through the motions when she plays with Rosa and Gina. The room is nearly electric with excitement, so sharp she can taste it. They give away little pieces of themselves to strangers on a regular basis, but it always feels so _right._

Gina slaps her little tambourine against her waist. Their voices rise together, and Amy plays on.

Her favorite song is “Double Tuck” which seems to be the favorite of a lot of other people, too. That feels nice, because it’s her song. She wrote it, albeit with a lot of help from Rosa, and she even sings a couple parts. She doesn’t think that her voice is that great, but Gina says that there’s a quality to it that sounds nice in some songs, which is about as big of a compliment as she’s ever gotten from Gina.

Their typical set is around ten songs, enough to do the whole album. Sometimes people suggest things, and if Gina’s feeling generous, they do them. 

Most of the time, they feel things out.

Tonight, they run through the latest album because everyone’s crazy about it. It’s definitely their most popular collection. She starts smiling like an idiot somewhere around “The Paris of People” which is a very upbeat song that’s also kind of ridiculous, although Amy can’t tell if Gina wrote it that way intentionally or not. She doesn’t stop. The enthusiasm of the crowd is just infectious.

“All right!” Gina calls after a while. The concerts basically end whenever she gets bored. “We’re pretty great, right?” The crowd laughs good-naturedly. “Yeah, yeah. If I had a mic right now, I’d drop it.” She fakes a surprised expression. “Oh wait, I do. Boink.”

Amy lets out a horrified yell before she can stop herself. It takes her a moment to realize that the microphone is hanging by its cord a couple feet off the ground.

“Aw, Amy,” Gina says. “I would never damage expensive sound equipment. Winky face.”

The “winky face” makes Amy a little nervous, but she laughs all the same. Whatever. She can be chill about this sort of thing. She can.

“Okay, drive home safely, thanks for coming, blah blah blah.” Gina resets the microphone, spreading her arms wide. “Oh and don’t forget-,”

She throws her head back and howls with maniacal laughter. Amy jumps, and Rosa cracks up from somewhere behind her.

After three minutes of standing there awkwardly, Gina’s still going strong, so Rosa stands up and drags Amy off the stage. 

“Oh my God,” Amy says. “Oh my God.”

Rosa’s grinning. “This is awesome. We’re so awesome.”

Amy’s inclined to agree. “Okay, uh . . .” she strains to hear a crack in Gina’s scream, but there’s nothing. “Her voice has to give out eventually, right?”

“I have no idea,” Rosa says, and she sounds profoundly happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has no plot, but i needed to write it for my soul
> 
> (corner-of-sky.tumblr.com)


	4. help me through the endless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our favorite boys completely fail to make a good first impression on our favorite girls, but it's kind of charming anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVEN'T GIVEN UP ON THIS STORY, I SWEAR.

As the crowds disperse, Amy, Rosa and Gina hide in the back rooms (it’s not hiding, Amy protests, they’re just- they’re not good at people, okay?) and complain. It’s a time-honored ritual that none of them would ever dream of disrupting. 

“Next time we go to Walgreens, I’m buying out the whole cough drop aisle,” Gina says.

“You say that every time,” Rosa says. “When have you _ever_ gone to Walgreens?”

Gina draws herself up to her full height, offended. “Um, excuse you-,” she starts, but Rosa tunes her out. With Gina, sometimes it’s best to just let her talk. 

“I have cough drops in my purse,” Amy begins, because she still doesn’t really get that bitching isn’t fun if there’s a solution. Rosa has faith in her, though. She properly used a piece of Internet slang the other day, so she’s capable of learning.

Gina wrinkles her nose. “They’re disgusting,” she says. “Buy the candy kind next time.”

Amy does that _face_ of hers, the totally bewildered one, and, not for the first time, Rosa understands why their fanbase has dubbed her a “cinnamon roll.”

Gina’s phone howls and she glances down to it- well, technically, to glance down she would have first had to be looking up- and smiles in a way that has Rosa slightly worried.

“Guess what,” she says. “We’re going to go meet my friend.”

Rosa doesn’t bother to stifle a cackle.

Amy winces. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Amy, I understand that your life of organizing socks has stunted your ability to meet people, but my friends are wonderful,” Gina says. “Rocky isn’t even pressing charges for the nose thing.”

“He deserved it,” Rosa says. “He was being a creep.”

Gina tilts her head. “Yeeaaahh, okay.”

“Let’s talk about your friends, shall we?” Amy ticks off her fingers. “A solid three of them have attempted to sell me weed at some point-,”

“And you _declined?_ Amy, you won’t get a better offer-,” Gina interjects.

“There was the guy from the circus-,”

“I like my men strong, anything wrong with that?”

“He was a _clown._ And your entire dancing troupe-,”

“Music and dance are like peanut butter and jelly for the soul, Amy. I understand that you just eat your crusty peanut butter sandwiches without any sweetness because you’re boring-,”

“I don’t even like peanut butter! But, okay, what about _Gary?”_

Rosa grins, tapping her heel against the table. “She’s got you there.”

Gina sucks in a breath. “To my defense, I met him on Twitter.”

A collective shudder goes through the room at the mere memory.

“Moving rapidly on,” Gina says. “I’m going out to meet him, and you can’t leave without me because I was your ride, so you pretty much have to, yeaaah.”

“I seem to recall that I was your ride,” Amy says, but she gets up anyway. She and Rosa once discussed how Gina can always get them to do what she wants despite the fact that she’s about as persuasive as a corn chip. No results have been reached yet.

The auditorium is empty save for two men standing towards the back. They have generally uninteresting appearances, so Rosa doesn’t spend too much time looking at them. 

“Guys, this is Jake, and that’s . . .” Gina trails off, tilting her head. “Jake’s babysitter?”

“I’m Charles!” the one on the left blurts out, apparently overcome with excitement. He does not dispute the idea that he’s Jake’s babysitter, which probably says something about Jake. “I listened to your latest album on Wednesday, and can I just say that I love the harmonies. Very classy.” He winks like that’s some kind of secret they share, and Rosa decides that she dislikes him.

“Okay, Charles.” Jake looks like he’s restraining himself a little more. “But, yeah. You guys are great.”

“Thanks,” Amy says. She and Rosa share a _why-did-we-come-out-here-again_ look. Rosa fishes for something to say that will make this situation a little less torturous.

“So. You knew Gina when she was a kid. Tell us about that.”

Jake smiles. His smile is okay, Rosa concludes. Amy seems to think so too, because she matches him with a smile of her own.

“Oh, man,” he says. “We had the greatest misadventures. Hey, remember that time we found that dog in the street and you told me I could pet him because rabies was a myth?”

“Rabies is a myth, Jake. It’s a governmental conspiracy to keep us from petting cool animals. I’ve told you this millions of times.” 

Amy looks concerned. She has a great “concerned” face, and she uses it all the time. “Did it bite you?”

“I named him Spot,” Jake proclaims proudly.

“That’s original,” Rosa mutters.

“He and I were bros,” Jake continues, seemingly oblivious. “But, yeah. He bit me.”

“It was hi-larious,” Gina says. 

“But wait!” Jake snaps and makes finger guns at them. “I don’t know your names.”

Rosa stares at him. “You went to our concert and you don’t know our names.”

“Well, we do,” Jake says. “I know how to use the Internet. But it wasn’t _personal,_ yanno?”

“I’m Amy.” Amy sticks her hand out and both men shake it. “That’s Rosa, and you know Gina.”

“Hi, Rosa,” Charles says. “May I just say that you look very-,” Rosa cuts him off with a glare, and he squeaks. “Uh . . . capable of breaking my arm,” he finishes, voice about three octaves higher than when he started the sentence.

Rosa snorts. “Don’t be weird,” she says. Charles nods fervently.

“Smart, that’s . . . smart,” he says and Rosa almost laughs. Having fans is weird and hilarious at the same time. She thoroughly enjoys it.

“So, Jake, what do you do?” Amy asks, because she’s good at maintaining a pretense of being interested in people’s lives. Wait, shit, maybe she’s genuinely interested. That can’t happen. Rosa needs someone to snark about Gina’s friends with.

“Oh, we’re . . . cops. No biggie, we just save the city and stuff.” He shrugs and Amy’s eyes light up.

“You’re in the NYPD?” she asks and oh God, they’re going to be here forever. “Rosa and I trained for that! How is it?”

Jake looks totally bewildered by the question. “Uh, it’s . . . fun. Yeah, fun.”

Amy frowns, put-off by the lack of a twelve-page double-spaced essay-format answer. “Okay,” she says, and that’s pretty much that. 

Gina frowns too. “All right, we have boring celebrity shit to do, so we should get moving. It’s not all rock n’ roll except wait, it totally is.”

Rosa’s heard this many times before. Gina tends to reuse sayings.

“Yeah!” Jake says, tearing his eyes from Amy. “Yeah, uh, okay. Charles and I should get back to doing, uh, cop stuff too. Should we talk on Sunday?” and he sounds like a child then, hopeful and nervous and Gina rolls her eyes.

“Duh,” she says. “Rosa and Amy are terrible people to rant to.” 

Rosa considers saying that she’s a good listener and Amy can be too, sometimes, but Jake has a huge smile on his face, so she keeps quiet.

Jake and Charles leave. Amy obsessively tunes her guitar in the dusty back room. Gina stares at her phone and Rosa counts the number of times she blinks.

In the end, every gig is more or less the same.

-

“That was terrible,” Jake says as they drive back to his apartment. 

Charles hums noncommittally. It didn’t go great, of course, but he got to meet his new favorite band and he didn’t even pass out. They probably think he’s weird now, but that’s okay. 

“I had a chance to tell cop stories!” Jake says. “I always tell cop stories! It’s my number-one go-to in vaguely awkward social situations, and I didn’t tell any! Amy was _interested,_ even!”

“It’s okay, Jakey,” Charles says, and fishes for something else to say. “Your stories aren’t that exciting, anyway.”

Jake squints at him. “How was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know. I panicked!”

Jake exhales. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he says, even though they had dinner before the show.

Charles bounces in his seat. “Ooh! Can I-?”

“Yes, Charles, you can pick the restaurant- hey, there’s probably no chance that we’ll get, I dunno, something from a vendor somewhere? Tasty and cheap, ridiculously unhealthy . . .”

Charles dutifully ignores him. “Oh, we’re only five miles away from this great new place. The theme is ‘exploring different parts of the animal.’”

“Oh my god,” Jake says. “I retract my previous statement. We’re going to McDonalds.”

Charles doesn’t even shudder at the mention of fast food because if Jake is choosing a restaurant, it must mean that he’s feeling better about not sharing cop stories with Amy. For that, Charles will eat as many Big Macs as he needs.

. . . Okay, not Big Macs. A southern salad, maybe. But only if he can bring his own dressing. 

In the end, he just buys ice cream, but Jake’s looking decidedly cheerful again, waving around the toy that came with his Happy Meal (it has these weird blinking lights that are oddly hypnotizing), and Charles decides that the night didn’t turn out so bad, after all.

He’s still going to hum “Double Tuck” to himself until he goes to sleep tonight because dangit, that song’s catchy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been forever and a day! This is a continuing story, I just had a bout of real life.


	5. never were an afterthought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a songwriting session goes pretty much the way songwriting sessions always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you write a new chapter of your fic because you reread the whole thing and got mad that there wasn't more

Amy insists on writing when they get home, which sucks but it could be worse. There’s something undeniably rock n’ roll about sprawling across the living room with a truly ridiculous amount of looseleaf paper and Rosa’s laptop, which is almost always dead, to bang out a song or two. It’s ticking towards midnight, at which point Amy will go to bed if they’re not on a crazy roll, and Rosa and Gina will promise to stay up and finish whatever they’re working on. Gina’s already planning what Netflix show they’ll watch instead. Something with terrible ratings and hot actors.

“This chorus isn’t good,” Rosa says flatly. She’s holding the paper up to the light like it’ll reveal all its secrets which is dumb because Gina’s only written lyrics in invisible ink three times and this isn’t one of them. “The syllables don’t match up.”

Gina rolls over and pulls the hair out of her mouth. “Sweetheart,” she says, “we are _pioneers_ of our _time._ We are breaking down the barriers that the music industry has had set down for _centuries._ Who said syllables need to match, anyway? Are we bowing down to the oppressive regime of- of _society?”_

“You can’t blame everything on society,” Amy says. She has a tiny pencil tucked behind one ear, probably just for aesthetic purposes, as Gina has never seen her use it. “We’re just trying to make it sound good.”

“I thought we were trying to spread a message,” Gina says. “Our message will not be bound by _syllable counts.”_

Rosa takes the paper from the clipboard and passes it to Gina.

Gina flaps it in the breeze of Amy’s stupid box fan and skims the scrawled lyrics. “Oh my God, this chorus is _terrible,_ guys. Why did you let this happen?”

Amy makes a ridiculously pathetic whining noise. Rosa kicks Gina in the thigh and Gina reconsiders the way she laughed in Amy’s face after Amy suggested they implement a _no-shoes_ rule because does Rosa pick her footwear purely on combat prowess or something?

“Okay,” Amy says, bright like a woman with a reasonable sleep schedule. “Let’s put our noses to the grindstone, guys! We are _powerful women-,”_ and she probably says more, but Gina typically tunes her out after the first _powerful women._

Rosa hums a D-flat and taps a pen against the carpet. “You think that we’re playing, but this ain’t a game; sooner or later you’ll all know our names. There.”

“Mmmmm, okay but we’re going for more of a lighthearted angle, so . . .” Gina draws out the last word, aware that unnecessary word-stretches annoy the crap out of Rosa.

“What,” Rosa says. “Since when.”

“We can’t go too hardcore because sooner or later Amy will insist on wearing a pantsuit onstage-,” Amy interjects with a dutiful _hey-_ “and we’ll all look dumb.”

“The song is called ‘Aphrodisiac,’” Rosa says. “It’s about fear.”

“But like . . . a fun, casual fear. Like when you find out that your blind date is a rodeo clown and he wants to show you some moves and you’re like, _huh, this could be fun_ but at the same time kinda like, _okay, grab the breadsticks and run._ Y’know?”

Amy blinks at her for a little bit. “You- your experiences are not universal, stop acting like they’re universal!”

“Moving on,” Rosa says, having known Gina long enough to be undeterred by weird personal anecdotes, “you promised me three months ago that I get one song per album that reassures me that I am in an actual rock band and _not-,”_ she jabs an accusatory finger towards Amy, which is kind of unfair because Amy rarely deserves the accusatory finger- “some mandatory high school music class.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Gina says briskly.

“I- excuse _you,_ French horn is a _quality instrument-,”_ Amy says at around the same time.

“You-,” Rosa jabs yet another accusatory finger at Amy- “are not helping your case. As for you . . .”

She digs around for her phone, locates it under Gina’s enormous penguin plush with eyes of death, swipes a few things, and holds it out for Gina to see. On screen is a shaky video of some bar or club or whatever, pulsing with bass from a band that totally sucked, and yeah, Gina remembers this. She can see Amy in the background, sullenly nursing a Long Island ice tea or some other lame alcohol, and she can see herself front and center, probably six drinks in and getting a little flushed.

“Mind repeating that, Gina?” Video Rosa says.

“Suuuureee,” Video Gina says. “I hereby do- doth declare that mine good, uh, brethren Rosa may- may hencetoforth have one song per album to make her feel cool and not like she’s in some mandatory high school music class. Perchance. And, uh . . . thou est better get thy groove on because-,” and it’s about then that the video stops.

“Uh, wow,” Amy says, “that is- weirdly specific evidence.”

“Well, it’s null,” Gina says. “You guys _know_ not to believe anything I say once I break out the Shakespearian! We agreed on that!”

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Rosa says, annoyingly smug.

“I’m going to bed,” Amy says loudly, “so- we can finish brainstorming tomorrow, if you guys want. Uh, please no maiming no matter where this argument leads because I _just_ got the carpet cleaned-,” she breaks off as her phone buzzes from the couch and she fumbles for it.

Amy drifts down the hall, her fragmented Professional Voice conversation going with her. Gina searches through her camera roll for some scrap of evidence that _yeah,_ they _totally_ agreed that Shakespearian voice was off-limits, it was _just_ after Four-Drink Amy seduced their overenthusiastic cabbie and Rosa terrified a frat party into submission by downing eight shots of something called Fire on the Mountain.

Rosa rolls her eyes and writes down the heavily-debated two lines. Gina gets distracted by a photo album she doesn’t remember creating called “Hamsters That Look Like Grumpy Cat.” Amy pushes open the back door and steps onto the fire escape for some “fresh air” or a poorly hidden smoke break. Everything returns to status quo.

And then Amy comes crashing back in with her deer-in-headlights we’re-so-doomed look that she gets whenever Gina does something dumb that gets in some magazine nobody cares about. She’s so worried she’s even forgotten to put out her cigarette. It waves around like a little orange lightning bug in the blue-green glow of Gina’s lava lamp.

“Guys,” she says, “something really bad happened.”

To Amy, _something really bad_ could mean anything from selling out a show (“this means that there are people who want to come and can’t, Rosa!”) to a minor car accident, so Gina doesn’t really know what expression to make. She settles on her perfected oh-no-you-di-n’t raised eyebrow.

“Stop with the dramatics,” Rosa says. “Just tell us.”

“Okay,” Amy says, with a breath that means she’s about to launch into a full-fledged Santiago Explanation. “So, you know how our manager is really terrible?”

“I think he’s pretty cool,” Rosa says.

“You just like him because he lets you do whatever you want,” Amy says, “and he doesn’t pay any attention to negative publicity, which, may I remind you, is _not_ what we’re paying him to do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gina says. “You plan everything for us anyway and we haven’t crashed and burned yet.”

Amy is momentarily pacified by an almost-compliment on her organizational skills, but she quickly gets back on track. “Well, it turns out he quit two months ago.”

“What?” Rosa says.

“He has the perfect job,” Gina says. “He doesn’t do anything because Amy does everything. Does he think he’s going to get a better offer? Bitch, _please._ ”

“No, it’s- it’s definitely true,” Amy says. “Apparently he filed a formal complaint about the quality of our coffee, which he sent to both of you and never got a response on?”

Gina squints for a moment, then snaps her fingers. “Oh yeah! I thought that was spam.”

“Wait,” Amy says. “Neither of you have our manager’s number saved?”

“He doesn’t _do anything,_ ” Rosa says. “We only have him to get the studio off our backs.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” Amy says. “He quit and none of us noticed. But we have to have a manager, and they just figured out that we don’t anymore, and- well.”

“Well what?” Rosa says.

“They’re sending over a new one,” Amy says. “He’ll be here Tuesday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


End file.
